Shatter (ON HIATUS)
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: *AU* Tracking Tony after he's captured by HYDRA, Bucky and Natasha realize they need a different sort of aid when it becomes evident there's magic involved. Hermione is released from prison for one purpose—to help find Iron Man. Though eager to earn her freedom, her new partners just might give her reasons to stick around when the mission is over. *triad fic*
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes****:**

**1)** This fic is canon divergent in the HP verse from the end of the Second Wizarding War, and as far as Marvel . . . there's canon elements from both the films and the comics, but this can largely be considered AU with events from, and ties to, each that will become apparent as the story progresses.

**2)** As stated on my FB page, I didn't want to start any new fics, given that my WIP list is already pretty lengthy and I didn't want to add to it, but all of my current wip plunnies are napping, and not having been able to write anything in near two weeks is having an adverse effect on me, emotionally, so here we are.

**3) **Updates may be sporadic, chapter lengths may vary wildly (some might be over 5k words, some might not crack 2k).

**4)** To be clear, while there is a fair amount of fanon that the _HP_ character Antonin Dolohov is Russian, there is in fact no actual canon basis for this. It's implied that he's Russian in this fic simply because with the last name 'Dolohov,' my knee-jerk reaction as someone of Slavic heritage is to go "Hey! That sounds Slavic!" *shrug*

* * *

**Natalya vs Natalia**:

When I write Bucky saying the Russian version of Nat's full first name, I write it as _Natalya_. I feel the need to state this now, despite that he doesn't address her as such in this chapter, because I've had people try to correct me in other fics with the 'I' spelling. Both spellings are technically correct, as it's a phonetic English spelling of a foreign name, I simply prefer the 'Y' spelling.

**Disclaimer****: **I do not own _Harry Potter_, _MARVEL/MCU, _or any affiliated characters, and make no profit, in any form, from this work.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Natasha looked up, her hand jumping to her weapon as the door swung open. Expression grave, Bucky stepped through, not even bothering to follow his own reflex that would have him drawing his weapon on her in response to her cautionary movement. Dropping her arm to her side, she could already feel herself slump a little based on the look marring his features, alone. "Nothing?"

He arched a brow, but his expression didn't change as he shrugged. "Found something, but it's not good."

"Wha-?" Nat cut short her question as he lifted the banged up red and gold helmet and held it out to her.

"Oh, God," she said, wincing as she crossed the floor to him. Hefting up the helmet in her hands, she examined the rent, battered metal. "What about Tony? Is he—?"

"No idea. There was no sign of him. Nothing but this."

Confusion shown in her green eyes as she frowned up at him. She knew just how skilled the Winter Soldier program had made James Buchanan Barnes—if he was trailing someone, he either found them, or they were no longer around to _be_ found.

"When you say 'nothing,' you mean what?"

His brows pinching together, he gave her a thoughtful expression, his bottom lip jutting out a bit. "I mean nothing. I mean I tracked his movements, and then . . . nothing. He seems to have met up with someone and then there's just _nothing._ Like he vanished. Without a trace. I don't wanna say it, but it's like—"

"Magic?" she asked, her eyes wide now, but not in a look of shock.

Bucky didn't like that there seemed something in this situation she understood but he didn't. "Yeah."

Nodding, she returned to the open case on the table and continued arming herself as she said, "Show me."

* * *

Frowning at the way the tracks simply ended, Nat closed her eyes, exhaling a long, low breath. "Shit." He was right. Not that she doubted Bucky or his skills, but she'd simply been hoping there was something more to this.

Even the tracks of Tony's mysterious companion were a dead end, they began as inexplicably as they vanished, the tracks materializing out of nowhere and then simply _ending _alongside Tony's.

Bucky shrugged, raking those metal fingers though his long, dark hair. "I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't seeing it, myself. There's no sign of anyone or anything else out here. No vehicle tracks for miles, no other people for miles. It seems like he and whoever he met didn't cross paths with _anybody_. What the fuck he came out here for in the first place? Who fucking knows! Unless he was abducted by aliens—which I know is possible, but even _that _leaves a trace—then they just literally up and—"

"Whoa, whoa, hey," Nat said, pressing her hand against his chest, her palm resting over the beat of his heart as she peered up into his face. "Calm down. This was not your fault."

Bucky swallowed hard, blinking as he darted his gaze away from hers. "Can you blame me? He didn't even want to work with us, especially because I was involved. But _I _convinced him I could be trusted. Me. Not you, not anyone else. Me."

"If there's anything I've learned, it's that no one tells Tony Stark what to do unless he's letting them."

Withdrawing her hand, she retrieved from her pack a device he was certain he'd never noticed amongst her things, before. Funny, Bucky'd thought if anyone knew all of the Black Widow's tricks and toys, it'd be him.

He followed on silent footfalls as she returned to Tony's last visible prints and began scanning the immediate vicinity with the device. "What is that?"

Nat's shoulders slumped as the bit of mystery tech let out a whining sound. "This, uh, is something I shouldn't tell you, but . . . it detects trace amounts of . . . magic in an area."

Brows shooting up, he nodded. "Magic, sure. Like, Strange?"

She waved dismissively with her free hand as she held the device closer to her face with the other, trying to make better sense of the readings. "What he does is more reality-bending than actual 'magic'. This is something else."

"Something we can do something about?"

"Not yet," she said, turning on her heel and starting away from the scene. "But I'm going to try."

"Where are we going?"

"Not we, me. I'm sorry, James, but I can't bring you along on this."

He definitely did not like the sound of that—she only called him James when shit was _serious_. "Wait." Bucky slipped his fingers around her wrist, pulling her to a halt. "At least tell me where you're going."

That familiar half-smile curved her lips as she turned to look at him. "You're cute when you worry about me. I've said all I can, for now. If I manage to wrangle you clearance for where I have to go, then I'll tell you when I get back."

"Fine." He didn't like it, but he recognized when Nat would not be budged about something. "But be careful. I expect you back in one fully-functioning piece."

"Oh, please." She crinkled the bridge of her nose as she shook her head at him. "You trained me well, didn't you?"

Bucky couldn't help but smirk. "I'd like to think so."

"Then stop worrying." Even as she said the words, though, Natasha Romanov was worried, herself. Even as she stood on her toes to plant a reassuring kiss on his lips.

She'd always hoped she'd never have to use these particular connections, but one had to fight magic with magic. If these scans were right, and Tony had been taken by some force of magic, then Nat was off to find herself a witch or wizard.

The kind the world at large didn't even know existed.

* * *

Hermione didn't even look up as the door to her cell opened. It wasn't a meal time, and she'd already gotten her infernal ice-cold scrub down for that week—she'd kill for a hot shower if she thought it would actually work out that way—so she couldn't imagine what anyone was bothering her for just now. Then again, the only positive thing to be said for Deathlock was that it didn't have Dementors, but neither did Akzaban these days. Nope, this place was worse. In the old days of Azkaban, it was the soul-draining presence of those dark figures that made the prisoners yearn for an end to it all and lose their minds.

In Deathlock, it was the utter numbness to everything. The void of life, of sights, sounds, other people aside from the Aurors who didn't engage prisoners in discussion of any kind, no matter the circumstances. Day in, day out, staring at the same cold and barren grey walls, no other voice to fill her ears but her own—she did, occasionally, talk to herself, sing, even scream, just to have something to hear. Not even a bloody window so she might look through the bars and see anything outside the prison walls, or feel the sun on her skin.

Some days, Hermione wondered if the monotony had driven her mad and she simply didn't know it, yet.

Holding up her hands, she climbed to her feet. Her gaze shot not to the Auror standing just outside the cell door, but to the wand she already well knew was trained on her. A wave of the implement directed her to step out.

As though she had a choice? Scowling, she walked into the corridor and started along the floor, the Auror just far enough back that the prisoner could not even hope to make a move for the wand.

She was led through passage after passage, further into the depths of the prison than she'd ever been before. Well, to be fair, she'd not been anywhere but her cell and the washroom, really. Their policy seemed to be to simply chuck their prisoners out of sight, and care for them only as much as would keep them breathing. Appalling human rights violation. Though, she couldn't argue that some of the other residents didn't deserve such a fate.

Hermione found herself ushered into a small conference room. The only other person there was a positively gorgeous redheaded woman in Muggle tactical gear. Stylish, streamlined tactical gear, but still, _Muggle._

Wide-eyed, Hermione snapped her attention to the Auror. The wizard was ignoring her, entirely, as the other woman said something to him in smooth, clipped Russian.

Whatever she said, the Auror looked wary. Hermione understand only as much as his reply was something akin to "You must be mad."

The Muggle tipped her head to one side, her expression lethally serious. "I _said_ leave us." Vocal chameleon, this one. She spoke English with an American accent; Hermione's time in the country before her imprisonment had allowed her enough audible language exposure to detect that this woman was a native Russian speaker.

Though he grumbled some distinctly displeased statement about the order, the Auror nodded. Stepping out, he pulled the door closed behind him.

"Make no mistake," the Muggle woman went on as she took a seat and opened the folder before her on the conference table. She didn't look up as she continued, "Try anything, I can kill you before you'll even know I got up out of this chair."

Hermione folded her arms, shrugging. She pushed aside that hearing a voice other than her own for the first time in . . . God, she didn't even know how long she'd been here, anymore, but she was so relieved at the sound of someone else speaking that she thought it a miracle her knees didn't give out.

"I can't imagine what I could possibly gain from killing complete stranger."

Flicking her gaze up from the paperwork, the redhead nodded. "So, we'll say your time here hasn't dulled your cognitive abilities or nurtured any undue aggression?"

"Oh, I have aggression, Miss Whoever-You-Are, but it's not undue, and you're not one of the people I'd direct it toward, given the opportunity."

"My name is Natasha Romanov. And I am a . . . liaison, of sorts, between the governments of the magical and non-magical communities."

"So, then, you _are_ a Muggle."

Natasha nodded, waving her hand toward the seat opposite her. "Yes. But I'm here to discuss you, not me, Hermione. Do you mind if I call you Hermione?"

Taking the offered seat—despite its stiffness, the simple wooden folding chair felt like a bloody cushion compared to the cold, hard floor, covered by no more than a thin mattress and thread-bare blanket that was the closest thing to comfort she could remember—Hermione shrugged. "No offense, but it honestly doesn't matter to me, either way."

"You always so short tempered?"

Again, Hermione shrugged. "I've never been incredibly patient, but it's been this place that's shot even the reserves I did have to hell. I'm not used to having company."

Nat smirked. "Yeah, I understand being incarcerated for murder can take the edge of one's people skills."

Her chestnut eyes rolled—and she cared little if the gesture came off as rude, since it was meant to be. "And there in lies our problem, Ms. Romanov."

"Please, Natasha or Nat will do. And what do you mean by that?"

Frowning thoughtfully, Hermione shook her head. "Because I don't consider what I did murder."

Fixing her gaze on Hermione's, Nat closed the folder and pushed it aside. She clasped her hands before her as she asked, "You killed someone. According to your record you, in fact, tracked this . . . Antonin Dolohov from the UK all the way to Moscow for the_ sole_ purpose of killing him."

"Yes."

Nat waved dismissively. "But it wasn't murder?" Oh, she wasn't one to pass judgement on someone for taking a life when necessary, but how necessary it was, and what made a killing necessary in Hermione Granger's eyes were the issues at hand.

"Would you have considered it murder if someone killed Jack the Ripper?"

"Was Dolohov like Jack the Ripper?"

"In a way, only he was not so discriminatory as to who his victims were. I made a murderer, a torture specialist for a madman who called himself Lord Voldemort, pay for his crimes. Though, I'm not even truly certain I did that, I made his death quick. A luxury I can assure you he afforded none of his victims. I gave the scales of justice a tip in the right direction. No more, no less."

Nat's brows furrowed as she braced her elbows on the table and tucked her clasped hands beneath her chin. "So in the end, you showed him mercy, even though you felt he didn't deserve it?"

"Oh, I _know _he didn't deserve it. But yes, I suppose I did."

Another smirk plucked at one corner of the other woman's lips, then. Reopening the folder, she looked over its contents one more time. This witch had been locked away in this miserable place for years, and yet, she seemed as sharp as the day she went in, if the intel the prison kept on her was to be believed.

"What is it you want with me?"

Nat sighed. Opening a second folder, she pushed it across the table to Hermione. "There's a problem in the States. One that has to do with magic, _your_ world's kind of magic. I reached out to my contact at the Ministry, they put me in touch with the Head Auror here at Deathlock."

Hermione shifted the papers in front of her, glimpsing just enough of the writing to get the gist of the situation. "You want someone who's not _really _a criminal, and hasn't been driven 'round the bed by this place, but who no one will miss?"

"Yes, but I'm in a position to make you a deal. You help us, you earn your freedom."

Arching a brow, Hermione gave the file's contents a more careful look. "Sort of like a work-release situation?"

"Sort of like, yeah."

"Wait . . . you've lost Iron Man? _The _Iron Man? The bloke in the red and gold suit?"

"We didn't lose him, he was taken."

"By magical means." Hermione wanted this to be true—not the superhero being kidnapped part, the freedom at the end bit. Really, desperately, wanted it. But she couldn't bring herself to trust the situation. Swallowing hard, she idly picked at the corners of the pages. "So, that's it, no tricks?"

"No tricks. You help us find him, your life becomes your own, again."

"I want the terms in writing, and I want you to take veritaserum and tell me all this, again."

Nat shrugged. "In writing, I can do. The truth potion? That's a no-go. Can't risk it. I have too much sensitive information about both our worlds up here," she said, tapping the tips of her fingers against her temple.

A somewhat petulant look took over Hermione's features. "Well . . . I'll need a wand."

"You'll have one. But know that if you attempt any harmful spells on my partner or myself, the deal's off."

The witch nodded. "I would expect as much. I'd like to get word to some friends back in England, if possible. I know the Ministry probably gave them the only story there was to tell, that I'm serving time for breaking the law in a foreign Wizarding community. I just want to let them know I'm all right after all this time. You can read it before sending, if that's necessary. I'll also need clothes, I don't even have the basics. And _God_, access to a warm bath before we leave Russia. Oh, and deodorant. Bloody hell, I can't even imagine what it must be like for you having to sit across from me right now." Okay, she was going off on unnecessary tangents—of course she'd probably have access to basic toiletries, but the loss of a filter between her mind and her mouth due to her lengthy, solitary incarceration was starting to show through.

And she was rather certain she was offending her own senses, right now. She thought the Aurors must use some sort of charm to not gag when dealing closely with the prisoners.

Her demands were so simple, but Nat knew that under the circumstances, these were the only things that mattered to Hermione Granger. "Nothing that can't be arranged."

"But you mean this?" Hermione asked, tapping the paperwork before her. "If I help you, if we find him, I'll _really _be free?"

The Muggle woman nodded, a half-smile curving her mouth. "I do. What do you say?"

Hermione knew it could be a trick. They might use her and then throw her back in here. But then, wasn't even some time out in the sun and the fresh air better than refusing and being stuck in here, every waking moment, until she'd drawn her last breath?

"Where do I sign?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Greetings Anon. I'mma start off this chapter by addressing your questions**:

Chances are since you ended your review with 'Bleh!' you're not continuing this story, but here we go in case you're back for chapter two. **1) **Harry is not in prison for killing Voldemort, nor Mrs. Weasley for killing Bellatrix, because those were deaths of enemy combatants _during_ war. In Hermione's case, this doesn't apply. While it may be justified, she still killed Dolohov on foreign soil with no authority_ in_ that country to do so _after_ the war was over. That's no longer an act sanctioned by said war, and would be considered an act of vigilantism, which no country's legal system takes to kindly. Her entire situation is meant to highlight that there's often a disparity between what is legal and what is just. Her taking of Dolohov's life was just, but it wasn't legal; her incarceration for that act is legal but is not just. **2) **Hermione mentions that she's unsure if the Ministry was able to tell her friends anything, which means the Ministry was aware of her situation. If they, as the governing body of a magical community, were unable to help, why would Harry have been able to do anything? Being a war hero does not mean foreign governments will answer to him—for that matter, Hermione was a war hero when she was arrested. Harry might be able to use his name and status to get favors, info, or his foot in the door in _some_ instances, but that's not an all-access pass to making officials in a country where he has no authority do _anything _for him, even _if_ he knows what the situation is or where she's kept, and there's no mention of him having that information. It's unfair to assume he's being a 'fair weather friend' when you can't even be sure what Harry knows about the situation.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Hermione jumped at the knock on the bathroom door. Natasha had checked them into a rather posh Muggle hotel for the evening so that the witch could have a night of restful recuperation from her stay in Deathlock before boarding the jet that would take them to the States. Of course, more downtime would be offered upon landing if Hermione felt she needed a little more before starting the investigation.

"You've been awful quiet. You okay in there?"

Smirking, Hermione shook her head. The woman on the other side of the door knew perfectly well there wasn't much she could get up to in here. Her wand was in Natasha's possession until their work _officially _began, and there was nothing in Hermione's dossier to suggest that she might try to harm herself if left alone.

Staring into the tub, she trailed her fingers through the water and winced. "I'm fine. I'm just . . . moving slow, is all. I'll be out soon."

"Take your time. I'll see about some dinner in the meanwhile."

Hermione's stomach rumbled so hard it nearly hurt at the thought of food—an_ actual_ warm, flavorful meal. "Thank you, Natasha."

There was a distinct pause on the other side of the door before Nat answered, "You're welcome."

Hermione stood from the edge of the tub and opened the too-soft hotel robe. As she let it drop to the floor, she pulled up the drain and turned on the cold water. Staring into the fragrant, sudsy surface, she swore she could feel tears beading in her eyes. A hot bath . . . . She'd bloody dreamed of a hot bath or a shower for the past few years. But now? She'd become so accustomed to the icy water that had been all they were allowed as Deathlock prisoners that she couldn't handle immersing herself in the steaming water.

She waited, alternately reprimanding herself and silently shaking her head. Hermione Granger understood the physiology behind this; she knew she would have to slowly reintroduce herself to things with which she was no longer personally familiar. Hell, she had wandered off following a busboy she knew perfectly well she'd only have found passably attractive prior to her incarceration. After that, Natasha had suggested Hermione keep her eyes averted when they were dealing with other people. The witch felt it probably best to keep to herself that she was likely only being so obedient about that because the other woman has some very lovely 'other' features to keep her attention occupied in order to avoid looking at anyone's faces.

Hermione'd never suspected herself of fancying men _and _women, alike, but perhaps that was only her rampant loneliness talking and her current infatuation with Natasha Romanov's bum would fade in time.

When the water in the tub had cooled to a tolerable level, she switched off the faucet and reset the drain plug. Still warmer than what she'd grown accustomed to, she slid down, back against the basin and allowed herself a few mindless minutes to soak, determined that her next bath or shower would be a little warmer, still. She'd get herself back to luxuriating in hot water if it killed her.

Of course, she was aware water temperature was one of those little worries. She'd thought she was going to have a meltdown at all the sounds out in the street as they'd traveled here from the prison grounds. The small, interspersed crowds in the lobby had seemed far too many people for her to be around and left her wanting to find a corner to hide in . . . making her all the more grateful for the distraction Nat's presence offered.

But even that was dangerous. She couldn't lean too heavily on Natasha, or that, in itself, could become a crutch.

* * *

Natasha watched the sleeping witch on the other bed, their bellies full of what counted as 'American cuisine' by locals. As she'd surmised, the meals at Deathlock had kept the prisoners up on the nutrients they needed to survive and not waste away, but other than that? Hermione Granger had looked ready to burst into tears when she'd taken her first bite of that cheeseburger.

Nat breathed a quiet snicker as she recalled Hermione asking if she wanted to keep her pickles. Though she liked them, herself, she gladly plucked them from her own burger and handed them over. She knew what it was like to do without.

Hermione had pushed the pillows aside to lay flat on her side against the mattress. She'd not even gotten under the covers, instead curling herself under what covering her hotel robe offered.

Sighing, she listened to the other woman's slumbering breaths for a few minutes before deciding to make a call. Checking the time, she knew given the hour in Russia, it would be morning there.

* * *

Bucky blinked his eyes open at the sound of a phone ringing. Not just any phone. He recognized_ this_ ringtone as the secured communication line Natasha had set up. Sure, it looked like any other smartphone, but there were so many internal bells and whistles to prevent _any_ tampering or breach of line security Bucky prayed he didn't do something to break the damn thing. Not his fault, modern phones were just so goddamned delicate.

Clearing his throat, he reached blindly into the charging dock and grabbed the device.

"Natasha?" he said, his bleary gaze coming into focus on her face staring back at him from the screen.

She smirked. "Like it's going to be anyone else?"

He smiled, closing his eyes again. "What's up? You headed back now?"

"Yeah. But um, I wanted to give you a heads up. I won't be alone."

"Oh, so I finally get to hear about the mystery mission?"

Nat winced, shaking her head. "Look, if it had been up to me, alone, I'd have told you everything from the start." With a sigh, she gave him as much information as she'd gotten him clearance for. She was in Russia—though currently at hotel in Moscow, her initial destination was still undisclosed, she was able to tell him Deathlock's function, but not its name or location. She'd taken custody of a witch—the kind that could deal with the sort of magic they seemed to be facing, but that the public could not know existed. And they'd be home tomorrow night.

"A prison for magical people?"

Shrugging, she nodded. "There's a prison for super-powered criminals, so it's not very different. But a place like that couldn't stand up to things that some of_ these_ people can do."

"You sure this witch is safe?" Fuck, Bucky couldn't even believe he was having this conversation, but then he was a genetically augmented super-soldier with a cyborg arm who'd served in WWII and still looked thirty, so what did he know?

With a quiet laugh, Nat turned the phone, letting him see the petite brunette, curled up on the other bed. "Real dangerous."

"She's tiny."

"Watch that! She's actually taller than me by, like, two inches."

"Natalya, _you're _tiny."

Frowning, she turned the phone back around to give Bucky a scathing look. "I'm _so _getting you back for that when I get home, James."

He grinned, as though her threat was a string of sweet, sappy words. "Just get home."

* * *

Hermione thought she was going to be ill as the jet landed. She knew she was going to be exhausted and need a nap, at least, before she was taken to Tony Stark's last known location to discern what clues there were for herself. And she was wildly aware of how much she was trying to ignore how she'd woken up.

Nat had been curled around her, so that she'd opened her eyes to a fall of bright auburn curls across her eyes.

Unable to find words for a moment, Hermione only observed the other woman's face so close to hers. She was breathtaking.

And then those green eyes fluttered open, catching Hermione's scrutiny. "Sorry," she said after a few heartbeats, a half-smile that was strangely shy curving her lips. "You started shaking in your sleep, and you only calmed down when I touched you to try to wake you up, but you needed the rest, so . . . ?" She shrugged as her voice trailed off.

"Oh." Hermione nodded, the recently too unfamiliar feeling of butterflies sweeping through her stomach making her a bit nervous suddenly. "Thank you."

Nat nodded back, her gaze searching Hermione's face a moment. "You still look a little tired, and we've got some time. You should catch a couple more minutes rest, okay?"

If Natasha had any issue with the way Hermione unconsciously snuggled against her as she drifted back to sleep, she didn't make it known. Instead, she simply rested her head back atop Hermione's and closed her eyes until her alarm sounded.

So far, Hermione was doing better with people being around. She was managing to not be infatuated with every semi-pretty person that passed by. Sounds that had been too loud yesterday were now only irritatingly _almost_ too loud, though crowds were still intimidating. With any luck, tonight she'd fall asleep without having to feel _totally_ exhausted and her stomach full, because she wouldn't find the mattress too soft. Now that she looked back on it, she was surprised she'd fallen asleep at all last night.

When they'd landed, Hermione wasn't even entirely certain where they were. Someplace in the Midwestern United States, but beyond that, she wasn't sure she was paying much attention. She was observing everything else—sights, sounds, as though she'd been removed from the world for so much longer than a few years, but then she supposed those years _had_ been long. Light was still a bit harsh for her, and she thought she looked bloody ridiculous in the pair or enormous sunglasses Natasha had provided her, but she was grateful nonetheless.

There were so many little things that were so different from how her life had been barely forty-eight hours ago. She was clean, warm, smelled pleasant, like bloody peaches and sunshine . . . and her hair was actually manageable. She even liked the attire Natasha had purchased for her—hiking boots, leggings as denim felt too confining, simple cotton tank tops and t-shirts. She hadn't even realized how much she'd missed knickers, and bras were a challenge, so Natasha had taken the courtesy of not getting anything with uncomfortable wires.

Hermione felt simply, blissfully _human_ for the first time in she couldn't quite recall how long.

"Okay, here we are," Nat said in a chipper tone as she pulled up the car in front of a two story house that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

"Seclusion, just what I was hoping for."

The redhead smirked at Hermione's quip. "You and I both you're not ready to be around large groups, just yet, anyway. And, we're off the grid here. We kind of _need_ to be, given what we're up against."

"I understand. I don't mean to sound rude, I'm just . . . still trying to get a handle on filtering what I say." She looked across the car to meet the other woman's gaze. "I'm extremely thankful for what you've done for me, Nat, really. I just . . . it's a lot to adjust to."

"I know. C'mon, then, I'll introduce you to James, then you can set up in the spare room and get some more rest."

"James?" Hermione asked as they got out of the car. Nat was kind enough to retrieve the suitcase of Hermione's recently purchased items from the trunk.

"My . . . partner. Though he'll probably tell you to call him Bucky."

"Bucky," Hermione echoed, nodding. Well, she . . . she couldn't even imagine a person who matched a name like that. "Did I hear some hesitation just now?"

Nat laughed as they made their way up the paved walk to the front steps. "Our relationship is complicated."

"Ah."

When Natasha opened the door, the women found Bucky in the living room. As he turned to look at them, he—still with that occasional 1940's gentlemanly charm—stood from the sofa in greeting. Spread out on the coffee table before him was the file of all the information he'd managed to scrape together in Nat's absence.

"Welcome home."

"Thanks." Nat set down the suitcase and stepped aside for the witch. "Hermione Granger, this is James Buchanan Barnes."

Bucky smiled, trying to keep the new woman at ease—Nat had told him how unaccustomed she was to dealing with people after her ordeal. He couldn't say he didn't know what that was like. A few more smiling faces when he'd been scrambling to get his mind back in working order might've helped a great deal, now that he thought about it. "I prefer Bucky," he said, extending his hand.

Hermione was . . . stuck. She stared up at the man in silence, obviously trying to get her mouth to work to say his name back, and appeared utterly incapable of lifting her arm to shake his hand.

Nat looked from one to the other before she realized the problem. His metal arm being plainly visible didn't seem to faze Hermione at all, but after having to chase her down in the hotel last night and the awareness of how long it had been that the witch had gone without, _well_ . . . maybe meeting Bucky Barnes while he was clad in a simple white, ribbed undershirt and blue jeans that fit him almost too well was a bit much for the recently incarcerated woman.

"Maybe you'd like me to show you to that spare room, hmm?"

Hermione nodded, trying hard to get a grip on her senses. They were_ both_ so damn pretty! Oh, this was like some kind of torture, wasn't it?

She was vaguely aware of Nat's free arm going around her shoulders to guide her through the house. For a few moments, she couldn't take her eyes off Bucky, turning her head to hold his gaze as she was escorted from the room.

Bucky's brows shot up as he watched the women walk away. So that woman was a witch? _She_ was their hope for finding Tony? A doubtful frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, he sat back down and returned to studying the file.

He had a feeling her imprisonment had been traumatizing, and wasn't that just what they needed? Another person with a traumatic past under the same roof. He hoped this was as good of an idea as Nat seemed to think it was, because he suddenly had a very bad feeling about all this.


End file.
